


The Right to be a God

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Boot Worship, Character Study, Corporal Punishment, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exploitation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Master/Servant, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Sexual Slavery, Object Penetration, Pseudo-Incest, Roleplay, Rough Oral Sex, Service Submission, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Slavery, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24878893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Exploring Sergei's unhealthy devotion to Oswell, and Albert's unhealthy obsession with making Sergei his... through Nicholai.[An out of pocket Sergei/Oswell that has turned into an out of pocket Nicholai/Albert. There is really no summary available for this it is just LOTS of toxicity.Chapter 8 now done. Content Warnings in each individual chapter's summary]
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Albert Wesker, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Oswell E. Spencer, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir, Sergei Vladimir/Albert Wesker, Sergei Vladimir/Oswell E. Spencer
Comments: 67
Kudos: 33





	1. Obsessive, Compulsive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShipVigilante (CaxceberXVI)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaxceberXVI/gifts).



> All translations at the end, in order.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergei has an unusual, unhealthy dedication to Oswell E. Spencer. He ropes Nicholai into his sickness. 
> 
> [CW: gross implied sex, implied alcoholism, oral sex, coercive sex]

**I. THESIS**

_The right to be a God_. 

What a strange right to declare one had, Sergei pondered, carefully stirring the contents of an intricately-painted white teacup. The petite silver spoon clinked softly against the bone china, scraping the gold-leaf pressed rim in consistent, steady circles. 

He cast his gaze into the tea in the cup, watching the warm liquid swirl around in a vortex of caramel-coloured silk. He studied it carefully, good eye combing it for any traces of the white, powdery residue of the crushed pill he'd mixed in with the milk. Satisfied, he slipped the spoon from the cup, setting it on the saucer gently.

Slowly, he set the cup and saucer down on the elaborate marble console table, bringing his gaze up to the antique, mercury-stained mirror hanging on the wall above it. He quickly adjusted his grey overcoat, smoothing out the unruly breast pockets and straightening the hems while intently assessing his face for any trace signs of a red flush. He'd washed his mouth out a few times while in the kitchen, but still felt the acrid taste of liquor tingling along the back of his gums. He wondered if Oswell would be able to smell it on his breath.

Sighing, Sergei picked up the saucer and strode the few steps from the console to the dark-wood door to the left-side of the dimly lit hallway. Rasping a careful set of three knocks to announce his arrival, he clasped the silver knob and twisted it -- the old fixture _creaking_ noisily as he did. The heavy curtain of oak pushed open on whining hinges to reveal the grandiose room he'd crossed the threshold of more than once that day. 

The Umbrella patriarch was before the tremendous picture window, precisely where Sergei had left him not an hour ago. The same inquisitive look was still penciled across his wrinkled face, his chin propped in a slender, bony hand as he glared out into the dark, thundering Arklay horizon.

" _Moy khozyain_ , your medicine."

Oswell turned his head as Sergei knelt carefully at the left side of the wheelchair, his tremendous height not muted by his position. He still loomed almost at eye-level to the seated elder, and offered him the teacup graciously. Without acknowledgement, the elder took it with a shaky right hand, sipping at it with a sloppy caution.

Moments of silence passed between them, Oswell drinking and Sergei casting his gaze towards the medical machinery hooked up to the side of the chair, dutifully studying its output. The senior had been deteriorating rapidly recently, confined to his chair most days and unable to even attend board meetings.

A soft, petting sensation broke Sergei from his concentration on the equipment, Oswell's left hand finding its way Into his greying hair, stroking the long locks gently through skeleton-esque fingers. A quiver of delight shot its way down the Russian's neck, immediately leaning into the ice-cold touch instinctively and moving to complete the order he had wordlessly been demanded to fulfil. 

Sergei set the saucer down on the hardwood floor beside him, lifting a large, strong hand, to stroke at Oswell's thigh, just barely exposed through the silk robe he adorned. The skin was cool and clammy, the sensation of it biting into his callouses as though it were toxic. Slowly, he slipped his hand under the robe.

"Such a good boy, Sergei." The high, raspy, accented voice trembled through the room, "Always such a good boy."

**II. ANTITHESIS**

" _Nyet, nyet, nyet_..." Nicholai huffed his protest through a grimace. His silver eyebrows were furrowed, pale nose crinkled in a facade of disgust that had lingered from the moment Sergei had pulled him into the velvet-walled foyer and announced his intentions behind having brought him to the estate. " _Seryozha_ , **_nyet_**. _Ya vas umolyayu._.."

"I have no choice, _moya lyubov_." Sergei's jaw clicked as he clenched his molars together, "It is what he has asked for."

" _Fuck_ hi--"

The quick, harsh slap immediately interrupted the curse bubbling from Nicholai's furious lips. It was a hasty palm against the younger man's left cheek, light and careful, but sudden enough to steal the words from his lips.

Sergei raised an accusatory finger, "Don't _ever_ speak like that." He said breathily, "Ever." He pressed the back of his fingers on the flushed spot his gentle correction had landed, his cool skin soothing the warm cheek instantly. While he didn't flinch away from the touch, Nicholai's twitching, unblinking eyes bore into him with a pensive viciousness. 

He knew he could see it -- that which he made no effort to conceal. There was no point -- the younger man knew him in intimate ways no other person did. He knew Nicholai's keen, jade eyes were taking in the haggard, red rings around his. The tiredness which seeped from every pore. The contours which seemed deeper, darker. His attempts at composure would have fooled any other human on Earth but Nicholai Zinoviev.

"You've been drinking again." Nicholai muttered, his voice low to keep with the whispers they'd resolved to speak through, as though the walls themselves had ears.

"That is none of your business." Sergei responded sternly, rubbing the other man's cheek a final few times before pulling away. 

Nicholai scoffed a sardonic laugh, "I think if you are going to tell me to _suck off your boss_ , it is."

The words sounded filthily vulgar when spoken aloud. Sergei had been comfortable with the politically correct, prodding implications that he'd planted in Nicholai's mind -- ones the younger man had been able to decipher within seconds. 

"You should be honoured." The words were flat, pressed, stretched. Sergei's good eye narrowed slightly in rebuke of Nicholai's obvious repulsion. He straightened his back, taking a deep breath through his nose. "Besides, serving the man who has given us _so much_ isn't the worst thing you could do with your time."

_So much._

_The motherland._

Nicholai shook his head, a bitter, acrid taste welling up at the back of his throat. He didn't reply, just cast a look of incredulous disgust down at the white-tiled corner of the floor.

"Go to your room. Wash up." Sergei ordered sternly, "Enough of this childishness."

**III. SYNTHESIS**

The liquor burned through the back of his throat. He'd managed to sneak a short, relief-inducing swig with his back turned to the scene unfolding -- the small flask he'd taken to carrying with him in one of his deep pockets was almost unnoticeable in his massive palms when he snuck a sip from it.

Delirious chokes and gasps echoed hollowly through the massive room, the sticky, moist sounds of sucking and gulping contrasting sickly against the bourgeoise intricacy of the tapestries, tiles, and pressed-tin ceilings. 

Nicholai was struggling, Sergei could just barely catch a glimpse of the churn of disgust on the younger man's face when he bobbed up from his shallow, tepid sucks, nose crinkled and brow furrowed tightly. He knew the younger man wasn't fully committed to the task at hand, and while a part of him did not fault him, he knew better than to accept such a lacklustre performance for his _khozyain._

Striding up the few steps to where Nicholai was knelt between Oswell's legs, he crouched down beside him, his sudden presence prompting the mercenary to pause and shoot a venomous glare at him through the corners of his jade eyes. Steadying one hand on the armrest of the wheelchair, Sergei slipped his other over the back of Nicholai's head, fingers mingling with the short, silver locks roughly. 

Oswell rasped a broken chuckle as he watched the older Russian encourage his comrade, pushing Nicholai's head down until he emitted a gurgling cough around the arousal, spittle dripping from the corners of his lips as his nose was buried in a nest of thin, grey hair.

" _Glubzhe, Kolya_." He muttered, " _Bud khoroshim_."

Nicholai's arms were curled against his chest, his hands squeezing at his collarbone desperately and leaving scratchy, red prints along it. Tears from sharp, acidic breathlessness were welling up against the steam of his clenched-shut eyes.

" _Dlya menya_." Sergei said flatly, lifting the younger man's head up and allowing him to catch his breath for a fraction of a second before pushing him back down, " _Sdelat' eto dlya menya_..."

From experience, Sergei knew when Oswell was close to climax, and he held Nicholai's head down over the arousal as the Umbrella patriarch spilled his noxious seed into his throat. Nicholai trembled as it coated his mouth, some tendrils slipping down into his stomach and immediately prompting a nausea to wrack through his gut.

" _Vypey eto_." Sergei ordered sternly, "Swallow it all."

Silence but for Oswell's harsh, ragged breathing filled the room. Sergei waited, needing to hear the tentative, audible _gulps_ before lifting the younger man up. Nicholai clearly fought it at first, body rejecting the thick, putrid fluid accumulated in him, but eventually gave in to the desperate need for air.

Nicholai gasped loudly when his throat was freed, Sergei using his grip on the back of his head to immediately pull him close into a tight embrace. He cooed softly, stroking the younger man's shoulder gently as he cradled him close, Nicholai's face instinctively buried itself in Sergei's neck, jagged heaves overwhelming him as he fought off an anxiety attack.

Oswell grinned deviously, greying eyes combing over the two strong, once-powerful men who were now under his thumb, living at his pleasure. Stolen lives reduced to service. Disciples of his desires, as a great number of others were or would soon be. A perverse level of enjoyment afforded to he who could take a Colonel and make him a pet. The deliciousness of the allegorical symbolism was never lost on him.

Rocking Nicholai slightly, Sergei flicked his good eye towards the elder, who nodded at him slowly in acute satisfaction.

_A job well done._

"To serve a God." Sergei whispered into Nicholai's ear, a smile pulling at his lips as he maintained Oswell's attention, "We should all be so lucky."

* * *

Notes for this chapter:

Translations:

Moy khozyain/мой хозяин = My owner (This term has an interesting meaning in Russian, which I learned recently. It is given to men with a certain style of paternalistic leadership -- someone who sort of oversees an empire like a family. Usually these men are very rich and powerful.)

Moya lyubov'/моя любовь = My love.

Ya vas umolyayu/я вас умоляю = I beg of you.

Glubzhe, Kolya/Глубже, Коля = Deeper, Nicholai.

Bud' khoroshim/Будь хорошим = Be good

Sdelat' eto dlya menya/Сделать это для меня. = For me, Do it for me.

~

No one:

Absolutely no one:

Nobody:

Literally not a soul:

Complete silence from the peanut gallery:

The lingering, stagnant abyss:

Me: Oswell/Nicholai/Sergei.


	2. Instability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergei reflects on his service to Oswell Spencer. 
> 
> [CW: No smut/explicit stuff in this chapter]

**_The people who go down in history as its heroes are never stable -- nor are they often immediately recognised as heroes. Sometimes it can take years after their death for it to be understood that they were attempting to advance humanity._ **

**_I am reminded of the Pushkin classic, The Captain's Daughter. Set during the Pugachev rebellion, the hero, Pyotr Grinyov, is a loyal soldier sentenced to death for treason._ **

**_His life is ultimately spared in the novel, though I know I will not be so fortunate._ **

Sergei set down his pen, letting it roll into the spine seam of the old journal before him. There weren't many blank pages left between the aged leather flaps, and once full it would join his small collection of identical journals, lined up on the bottom shelf of his bookcase. The old chair groaned as he leaned back in it, cracking his neck against each shoulder. He cast his gaze towards the wooden mantle clock perched at the corner of his massive desk. 

2:46 a.m.

He sighed, stretching his sight beyond the clock's intricate, golden face towards the bed. 

Nicholai was sleeping. His body was draped in thin, white linens, ones that reflected the soft, blue haze of moonlight glimmering through the open window. The younger man was curled onto his side, facing away from him. It had taken him hours to calm down enough to sleep after what had transpired that night. While the Colonel had sympathised with Nicholai's disgust, the fulfilment was otherwise non-negotiable. An order by Oswell Spencer was not to be disobeyed by anyone.

Sergei opened one of the desk's drawers and fished for his box of matches. There was a large, red candle on the desk, and he opted to light it and switch off the harsh desk lamp he'd been utilising for a few hours as he wrote, suddenly becoming conscious of whether he was disturbing Nicholai.

He pulled the candle closer to him, the flame dancing an orange glow over his pages as he picked up the pen once again.

**_Nicholai hates me._ **

The words lingered heavily on the page, the ink somehow getting darker and darker as it sat. The words stared at him abusively. accosting him, attacking him. Sergei took a deep, shaky breath.

**_He does not understand. I repeat myself with him, and yet he does not understand. Master Spencer has risen the sun for us, given us hope and purpose. We would both be homeless in Moscow if it were not for him taking us in. Master has the same goals as the great leaders of our old country -- the betterment of the human race. The advancement of us all. Why does my Kolya not understand?_ **

**_His resistance is uncharacteristic -- he has trusted me with his life in battles, with his identity, with his body... But I am sure now that he believes I am going insane, or that my rational thoughts are muted by age and liquor. He will not listen to my cries that I have never felt more lucid._ **

**_Colonels must sometimes make unpopular decisions for the betterment of their men._ **

A light interrupted his meticulous thoughts -- one which cut through the gentle glow of the candle with harsh, angry streaks of red. 

The small, red call-bell signal affixed to the wall began flashing incessantly, silently screaming a demand.

Quietly, Sergei pushed the chair back, the wooden legs whispering a scrape across the dark tiled floor. He rose, striding carefully to the coat tree by the bedroom's door to retrieve his limiter trench before exiting. 

"S.. _Seryozha_?"

A groggy beckon stopped him as he was pulling his arms through the sleeves. He turned to the bed to see Nicholai had shifted to face him, heavy head just barely lifted.

"Shh, _Kolya_. Go back to sleep." He cooed a soft whisper, pulling the coat over his shoulders.

"Where are you going..?" Nicholai yawned loudly as he spoke, digging his face into the pillow in an attempt to suppress it. He sucked a sleepy breath through his nose once it had subsided, blinking slowly towards the Colonel with a muted, exhausted expression.

" _Moy khozyain_..."

The younger man's eyes immediately rolled, "Oh for fucks s--"

"He needs me." Sergei said sternly, interrupting the grumble of protest and immediately turning to leave the room.

He didn't bother buttoning or belting his trench, wrapping it around himself haphazardly as he trudged through the empty, cold halls. They were dark, even with the faint evening sconces illuminating swatches of orange haze against the elaborately papered walls. The bursts of dim light acted as a runway to his destination -- a perfect path in the darkness, carving out the abyss and directing him.

His mind was mostly empty as he plodded, the slightest bit of lethargy creeping through his muscles and mind. Sleep had been fleeting since he'd arrived to the Estate, invariably hyper-paranoid about the call-bell. It made no sound, and he didn't trust himself to sense its glare with his eyes closed. Most nights he stayed up, writing himself into even less clarity than he had before he'd taken up the pen. Some nights, vodka encouraged his lack of clarity.

As was his usual ritual, Sergei rasped thrice at the wooden door before opening it. The room was dark, darker than the hall. The curtains were drawn tightly, and save for the hiss and click of medical equipment, it was a silent void. A vacuum. One which simultaneously pulled him in and rejected him.

" _Khozyain_..." The Russian cleared his throat, "What can I do for you, Sir?"

* * *

Notes for this chapter: In Umbrella Chronicles, a memo can be found on Sergei Vladimir. At the end, it reads "He shows an ardor for following Spencer's orders and makes sure even the most radical of Spencer's wishes are carried out."

Hence... this fic which continues to grow for no apparent reason.


	3. Discipline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergei receives punishment from Oswell for a mistake.
> 
> [CW: whipping, abuse, humiliation]

Nicholai's hands were wringing at his waist, a firm palm kneading the knuckles of his other hand in a silent cry of stress. The familiar lead ball in his throat was constricting his breathing -- swelling larger and larger -- with every second that passed. 

Standing at the back of the boardroom, Nicholai felt as though he were watching a train crash in slow motion. He'd been called to the room, and had to fight through a scramble of rushing executives fleeing the scene to even make it to the wooden double-doors and cross the threshold. They'd been sent away, and were clearly trying to put as much distance between themselves and the room as possible, as quickly as possible. 

When he'd entered, it had just been Sergei and Oswell Spencer left, the latter sitting the head of the table, a snarl painted over his gaunt face. He was hurling furious accusations at the Colonel, who simply sat in silence, accepting the verbal barrage. Nicholai hadn't many details on the background of Oswell's anger, but he was sure it was associated with the nearby B.O.W outbreak he'd heard murmurs of having occurred. But how it had been the result of Sergei's wrongdoing was lost on him, and he tried to ponder ways in which it made sense to no avail -- _surely_ _it would have been the fault of the virologists at the laboratory where the B.O.W escaped, would it not?_

"This was supposed to be _easy_." Oswell's hiss penetrated every molecule of oxygen in the room, thieving it for milliseconds, "How did _you_ let this happen?"

"I am so sorry, _moy khozyain_."

Despite being the largest man in the room in height and heft, Sergei looked miniature. The forlorn glaze over his good eye, head cast down towards the intricate carpet, made him seem insignificant -- child-like, almost. Nicholai's lip twitched slightly as he clenched his jaw, the scene being a totally alien one to him. As was always the case around Oswell, Sergei was subdued, compliant, subordinate -- it was a night-and-day comparison to the usual dominant bombast he effortlessly maintained around every other person who came into contact with him. Certainly, the younger man never would have imagined to see his Colonel bowing and scraping to a British aristocrat, Sergei being the perfect picture of internal and external control during their military years. 

But as Nicholai continued to watch with bated breath, corporals scrambling to do as instructed by the Colonel -- else face egregious consequences -- seemed too distant memory to even have been real at all.

Another screech from Oswell broke Nicholai from his silent ruminations, the lead ball in his throat lurching painfully.

" ** _YOU_**." Oswell was pointing a boney, crooked finger towards Nicholai, "Come here."

The younger man stepped deeper into the massive boardroom carefully, as though the floor itself might give out with one misplaced heel.

He stopped behind Sergei's chair, one that was just to the right side of where Oswell sat at the head of the table. 

The Umbrella patriarch glared, "Come. _Here_." His skeletal finger drew an invisible radius a few short feet away from the right side of his wheelchair.

Tepidly, Nicholai navigated his way around to the corner closest to Oswell. As he did, another pale, shaky finger began directing towards the space between Nicholai and the chair. "Sergei -- kneel there. Face me." 

The Colonel complied without a moment's hesitation, dropping to his knees on the carpet with his back to Nicholai, and, as though an extensive list of detailed instructions had been issued silently between he and Oswell, Sergei began unbuttoning his coat. He peeled it from his shoulders quickly, allowing it to drop and pool around his thighs and knees. The white undershirt he had been wearing was similarly discarded.

Nicholai cursed himself when he found he was distracted by the intense, harsh contours of Sergei's impressive back muscles. Poorly healed scars cutting a sickening patchwork across his broad canvas. He shook away the slight gape that had parted his lips, confusion and anxiety reassuming its throne in the forefront of his mind. He stopped blinking when the familiar, tinny sound of buckles unbuckling _pinged_ through the room, and he suppressed a tiny gasp when he saw Sergei's belt rapidly be pulled from the loops of his grey fatigue pants.

Sergei sat back on his heels, turning slightly and holding the thick, leather strap out towards Nicholai. 

" _Seryozha_!" Nicholai's gasped, his chest burning with the weight of realisation.

" _Voz'mi eto, Kolya_." Sergei's expression was muted, deep, rolling voice entirely monotone. He shook the belt slightly, holding it up higher with insistence.

Oswell was chuckling, grey eyes panning over Nicholai's haggard face in perverse satisfaction.

"You'll help your _comrade_ apologize, won't you?" Oswell jeered, "Or do I have to call someone else?"

Nicholai snatched the belt from Sergei's hand with a snarl, nose crinkled in disgust. His eyes flicked from the Colonel to Oswell rapidly, a quiver of stress wracking his cheek as he clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth began to grind against each other painfully.

"Good." Oswell nodded, a grin pulling back his lips to reveal crooked teeth, "Sergei knows I am a forgiving man. There must always be punishment for mistakes, however... If they are not to be repeated." He dipped his head down slightly to address the kneeling Russian, "Isn't that right, Sergei?"

" _Da_!" The Colonel nodded in quick, earnest agreement, " _Spasiba, moy khozayin!_ "

Nicholai felt bile plucking at the bottom of his oesophagus. There was a surreal element to the scene, one that felt as though it was playing and distorting his senses. The feeling was familiar -- it had followed him every time he visited the Spencer Estate, and, as of recently, every time he visited Sergei, no matter where the man was. It was as though Umbrella was distorting the laws of time and space, breaking down and building up reality itself in whatever way it saw fit. More and more, he was feeling as though he needed to flee -- flee back to the country from which he'd escaped and take up the life he had never wanted for himself, moving into a tiny _dacha_ in the middle of Siberian no where and growing potatoes like his mother had. 

"Nice and hard now, Nicholas." Oswell's jeer broke his stagnant rumination.

_Nicholai. It's Nicholai._

The younger man's eyes danced along Sergei's strong back. A back he'd clung to more times than he could remember in ecstatic jubilance. A back he'd held in the rare, warm embraces they'd sometimes shared. A back he'd rubbed softly when the Colonel was hurting from training or stress. Hesitation began accumulating, Nicholai rubbing his lips together in an attempt to suppress shaky breaths. 

Sergei didn't turn to him when he spoke, whispering a curt order bordering on gentle encouragement in Russian.

" _Sdelay eto_."

The Colonel barely flinched when the belt struck across his back, a tiny hiccup pressing past his lips but body otherwise unresponsive. He casually cracked his neck against his shoulder, sighing deeply.

"Was that hard enough, Sergei?" Oswell cocked his head to the side inquisitively, an amused smirk playing across his wrinkled lips.

" _Nyet, moy khozayin_." Sergei turned to cast his gaze over his shoulder, brow furrowed and jaw stern, " _Kolya_. I know you have more strength than that."

Nicholai's breath was slowly quivering from his lips, raggedly bubbling from his nose, "S... Ser--"

"Do _not_ be difficult." The Colonel immediately corrected, turning his head back to rest his gaze on Oswell's feet. He sucked a deep breath through his teeth and dutifully awaited the next strike.

Nicholai scoffed a gasp, nostrils flaring in a mingling concoction of outrage, embarrassment, anxiety, and concern. He licked his lips, rubbing them together and steadying himself before he cocked his arm back and planted another strike with the belt -- the flesh it licked immediately flushing with a red blush. 

"Was _that_ hard enough, Sergei?" Oswell asked again, chiding. "What do you deserve?"

" _Nyet, khozyain_." The Colonel's voice was strained, and one fist began tightly kneading the material of his pants, "I deserve more... harder, _moy_ _khozyain_."

Oswell looked up at Nicholai, grey eyes bearing into his jade ones with a deep, festering disdain intersecting the harsh, grumbling words he spoke, "You'd better listen to _your Colonel_ , young man."

The snap that echoed through the room was near deafening, and this time Sergei jerked forward in pain, a gasping sputter spilling from his lips. Goosebumps began to prick at Nicholai's flesh, prompted by the reverberating howl of leather on flesh.

"Good, good." Oswell nodded, "How many of those should you get, Sergei?"

It took Sergei a short moment to collect himself enough to respond, a small detail that felt as though it was shredding at Nicholai's insides. Even if he couldn't see the Colonel's face, he could hear the deep swallow that preceded the pathetic babbling. 

"A-as m-any as y-you think, _m-moy khozayin_."

"You've been a very big fuckup, haven't you?" 

" _Da_."

Oswell flicked his gaze up towards Nicholai again, a cruel smirk plying at his lips. 

"Just proceed. Until the spirit moves me."

* * *

Notes for this chapter:

Translations:

Voz'mi eto, Kolya/Возьми это, Коля = Take this, Nicholai.

Spasibo moy khozyain/Спасибо мой хозяин = Thank you, my owner/master.

Sdelay eto/Сделай это = Do it.


	4. Become of Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sergei's death, Nicholai reflects. Albert helps him.
> 
> [CW: murder, blood/guts, implied psychological abuse, implied sexual content]

_The right to be a God._

_That right is now mine._

"You seem to have enjoyed that, Nicholai." 

The Russian's jade eyes flicked towards the corpse lying stagnant on the ground -- blood bubbling from the gaping wound that pierced through his gut.

"We go back." He said nonchalantly, carefully stepping forth from the dark corner of the room where he'd taken shelter in observance and immersing himself in the hazy, muted moonlight beaming through the massive picture window. He found himself drawing nearer to Oswell Spencer's body, almost stepping upon the silk and velvet robe that had spilled around his body as he tumbled to the ground, lifeless.

Albert chuckled, holding up his glove and inspecting it carefully. The flashes of white-hot thunder highlighted the sticky slop of flesh, organ, and blood affixed to the leather, it glowing bright red for fleeting moments until dissolving back into the contrastlessness of darkness. 

"I know you do..." Albert mewed, turning away from the window he'd taken to peering through for the last few minutes, "You and _Sergei_."

The name played across Nicholai's mind, drumming through the memories he'd stored safely in the disassociated part of himself he'd resolved years ago to not feed and let starve to death. It was still alive, much to his unsurprised surprise -- floating pictures playing abusively across his eyes, screeching through his head like a chainsaw. When Albert repeated the name, Nicholai fought off the taste of lead in his mouth.

"Sergei." Albert scoffed, pursing his lips, "Stunning how a Colonel couldn't see when defeat was nigh."

"He could. He just didn't care." Nicholai shrugged, disappointed in the sudden rasp that had caught his voice, "It wasn't about Umbrella for him."

"Oh?" Albert lightly strode down the steps of the elaborate, multi-level bedroom, a playful smirk pulling at his lips, "What was it about, then?"

Nicholai prodded Oswell's shoulder with the toe of his left boot, "Him." He cleared his throat, tongue dancing around the word that immediately stuck itself to his gums. Again, memories seemed to assault him -- ones of cleaning Sergei's wounds of penance, both those self-inflicted and those ordered. Of fulfilling demands so as to ensure the Colonel stayed in his Master's good graces. Of long nights, arguing about the fate that would become of him if he continued to stand by the sinking ship that was Umbrella.

Sergei had been furious with him after he'd sold fundamental elements of the Raccoon City data to a shadowy third party. 

A _shadowy third party_ he'd pledged allegiance to with no shortage of anguish in abandoning all he had ever known.

A _shadowy third party_ who would go on to slaughter his wayward Colonel.

A _shadowy third party_ which was getting closer and closer to him, stepping over Oswell's body with a casual stride, circling him like a predatory beat stalking its prey.

"Which means?" The heat from Albert's breathy mutter just barely fluttered against Nicholai's cheek, goosebumps peppering along his neck and spine instantaneously.

The Russian licked his lips. Familiar words left unspoken swelled his mouth with a putrid flavour he couldn't quite muster the courage to identify, "Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter anymore."

"What _does_ matter, Nicholai?"

The smirk that had been painted across Albert's face had only grown wider and more devilish, the dim light of the lit sconce-candles played off of his sunglasses, behind which Nicholai could just barely catch a glimpse of his not-quite-human eyes.

"You."

The thunder crashed outside, the storm bellowing in rage as it began to apex.

Oswell's corpse was gurgling with the after-effects of death beginning to set in -- tiny, almost unnoticeable twitches wracking his body as the remaining neurons shot off impotently.

Nicholai shuddered when he felt a firm palm suddenly dance from his back to his hips, dragging its way towards his abdomen in a slow, taut knead. Albert pulled him closely, until his back was flush against his chest. He smelled like leather, Nicholai noted contently, the scene of the man's elaborate uniform beginning to tickle at his nose intrusively. 

His other tugging up the hem of Nicholai's dark shirt, Albert's slipped a hand beneath the light material, stroking it across the younger man's waist. Nicholai could feel the wet smear of blood and organ tingle across his skin -- perverse paint for a perverse canvas that infested his pores, brushing his pale flesh in broad strokes. A breathy, ragged moan escaped him as Albert's hand pushed lower and lower, fingers dipping beneath the belted band of his pants and disappearing into the dark fabric, leaving behind a trail of dark red filth. Nicholai's hips involuntarily bucked back, hands moving to grab at Albert's strong arms in silent approval.

"How does it feel..." Albert droned softly into his ear, lips brushing his lobe, "To serve a God?"

Nicholai smiled as he felt the moist glove wrap around him, mind going blank for a short moment before he steadied himself back from whatever abyss he was rapidly being pushed towards. Biting his bottom lip. His head lulled back to rest on Albert's shoulder, turning to nestle his nose in the well-defined hollow of the other man's cheek. Waves of pleasure been to burn through his hips, flames of desire welling up in his stomach and licking at his lungs almost painfully.

"We should all be so lucky..." He sighed shakily in aroused delight, " _Moy khozyain_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW this was out of pocket, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. 
> 
> Thank you to the amazing ShipVigilante for giving me ideas TT-TT


	5. Little Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicholai begins to serve Albert Wesker at the Tricell Facility. He has little routines.
> 
> [CW: boot worship, implied psychological abuse, implied Stockholm syndrome]

Little rituals. 

They were what had kept Nicholai sane after _everything_. 

He woke up at exactly 4:29 a.m, immediately reaching to the small, bedside table to switch off the alarm of his watch before it called out on the half hour. 

He'd slip from bed quietly, though he was usually already alone, and trudge down to the kitchen to make his tea. While the Tricell facility had a number of domestic and culinary workers whose sole purpose was to serve the researchers, he preferred to make it himself. The cooks never brewed his tea strong enough -- he wanted _chifir_ , not a watery British cuppa. He'd drink it alone in a dark, empty utility hallway used for emergency exits while puffing on a cigarette.

After the caffeine and nicotine had sufficiently rattled his bones, he'd return to the room he called home -- not the one he woke up in -- to shower and change.

He didn't have to worry about missions anymore. Recently, he'd made himself useful in the laboratory, directing some of the more clueless technicians. At this point, he was almost more skilled at B.O.W transmutation and data collection than they were. 

10:45 a.m, another cigarette and _chifir,_ alone in the utility hallway. The darkness would help ease his eyes after the morning hours of staring at the bright computer screens and neon-glow of the tanks suspending the various creatures being studied. 

As the afternoon rolls in, the African heat beginning to swell outside the facility's walls starts to slowly pierce the cement and steel exterior of the building, a mugginess welling up in his safe little hallway. It makes it humid, clammy, claustrophobic, and unenjoyable like everything else. 

He'd work for several hours more in the laboratory, keenly monitoring the researcher's sample extraction and processing. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of the pallor silhouette of a man he'd not seen since the night before, floating through the dark recesses of the facility like a ghost. If he craned his neck around tanks, he might be able to grab the scene of Albert standing before the one which contained the suspended form of _that woman_ \-- Valentine. He was practically obsessed with the bitch. 

He tried to keep his distance from Albert and Excella during the day. Long hours of working intersected with short, meticulously planned escapes to the sacred hallway for his cigarette and _chifir._ But the little rituals that kept him sane would sometimes kept disrupted by the smell and sound of leather drawing closer and closer. Once in a while, a gloved finger would slip its way under his chin and turn his idle gaze from the cement wall of the narrow hallway to a void abyss of specially-crafted glass covering two, not-quite human eyes. Eyes that were becoming increasingly not-quite human.

The tiny moments shared in solitude were meant as affirmations.

_"I own you. You know that, right?"_

_"Yes."_

They weren't words that were spoken. They didn't need to be spoken. It was a silent exchange.

Albert treated him like a stand-in for Sergei. That was a realisation that had been automatic, flippant, natural. Of course he did -- why wouldn't he? He'd stolen him from the man, a man who had practically been his father. A man who had raised him since a babbling, pathetic orphan. A man who he had served within an inch of his life, in any capacity he had needed, since. Albert didn't just hate Sergei for having repeatedly stood in his way with his incessant loyalty to Oswell Spencer; he hated Sergei for having had loyalty to Oswell Spencer to begin with. 

Nicholai knew he was a prize to Albert. Something of a trophy -- an object to memorialise his conquest of both Sergei and Oswell, two patriarchs who he'd ceremoniously disposed and taken the place of with all the vengeance of a lesser God. These facts were easy to understand and accept, however filthy he knew it was to so enjoy absorbing the abuse intended for another.

But the realisation that _he_ had also been treating _Albert_ as a stand-in for Sergei was much more difficult to accept, and made their dynamic significantly more difficult to understand the purpose of. 

It had startled him, the first time he'd called out his old comrade's name while being used. He didn't know what had prompted the slip of the tongue. 

The hand around his throat? 

The bruising fingers gripping his hip?

The long, hard, deep thrusts beating into his gut, ruthlessly stealing pleasure and breath?

The name had stopped Albert still. He'd glared at him for a moment inquisitively, cocking his head to the side. Beads of sweat had trailed down his temple as he paused and processed. And then, he had laughed. A bellowing, jeering laugh -- one that had cut through every cell in Nicholai's body abusively. He had winced as he was mercilessly mocked by the laugh, one that had then been followed by a horrific resumption of an even more intense pace. 

Nicholai had often reflected about that night. 

A night that had resulted in perverse demands -- pitiful little games -- that Nicholai knew had been far-too-easy for him to fulfil. 

" _You'll be a good boy for me tonight... Won't you, **Sergei**?"_

_"Da, moy khozyain."_

During his 8:40 p.m cigarette and _chifir_ , Albert was in the hall waiting for him. 

Sat upon a cement step, legs crossed, the Brit was staring at him deeply from behind those dark, dark glasses. Glasses that were reflecting the _**EXIT**_ sign at the opposite end of the hallway, and casting a maniacal red haze over his pale skin and hair.

Nicholai was silent and still, sipping his tea where he stood.

Breaths passed between them.

The tiny, gentle ticking of his watch was almost audible in the claustrophobic, clammy hallway. 

"Come _here_ , Nicholas."

The teacup made a chipper _clink_ as he leaned down to set it gently on the ground by his foot. Nicholai dragged his hand up his shin as he rose to stand again, feeling the strain in his tight calf as he stretched it out, rising slowly. He walked casually, counting sixteen steps before he was directly before Albert, absorbing the sound of his boots on the cement floor in a way he never had but had dozens of times before.

A long, gloved finger pointed to the cracked floor with a silent demand, one that didn't need further articulation.

Nicholai dropped to his knees, gaze locked on the faintly visible eyes behind the sheet of black glass that were intently focused on him. 

" _Moy khozyain_ , may I?"

"You may."

It broke when his head bowed, jade eyes dancing over the impossibly shiny leather boots. Albert's left was teetering off the ground as it was crossed over his right thigh, making it easy for Nicholai to lean in and kiss it. 

Another kiss. And another. His tongue involuntarily slipped past his lips and trailed across the side, finding a seam to latch on to and follow intently. The smell and taste of leather swelled in his nose and mouth, overwhelming him. Albert's hand found its way to the back of his head as his lips drew themselves to the toe of his boot, encouraging the deep, sloppy sucks. 

Worship.

Another one of the little rituals he had adopted, though, of course, it was one he had been instructed to adopt. 

He had become somewhat of an expert at licking Albert's boots -- he was convinced his tongue knew the contours and taste of every pair the man owned. Each was slightly unique. Some had the lingering flavour of sweat, tears, blood. Some of it was his own.

When his lips broke from the left boot, a hot flush had already painted its way across his face, and an unconcerned string of saliva was trailing its way from the leather skin to his lips. He panted slightly, licking his lips to break the strand, and flicking his eyes up at Albert for approval.

" _Moy khozyain_ , may I?" Breathier.

"You may." Breathier.

He shuffled his knees back so he could bow deeply, kissing the boot thrice as he had with the last, maintaining his little ritual, before his tongue began to make love to the leather exterior, swallowing the toe of the boot between his lips and slurping in the moistness he left behind.

The hallway was filled with the perverse orchestra of sucking, licking, and Nicholai's tiny gasps-near-moans. Albert's leather pants _crunched_ slightly as his hands kneaded his thigh, disciplining his response to the sights below him.

In the distance, a clamour was breaking out. It was drawing nearer and nearer, but neither man paid it mind until a familiar, vulgar Italian accent broke the filth viciously, the door to the hall suddenly swinging open rapidly to reveal the scantily clad form of Excella Gionne. 

"Albert! _Dah-leng_. Wh--"

Her hand went to her chest for a moment, long nails curling in the fine fabric of her white dress as her lip cocked in a simulacrum of disgust.

" _Malati di mente!_ " Excella sneered, her jewellery jangling comically as she crossed her arms tightly. 

Nicholai flicked his eyes up, tongue not breaking contact with the leather of Albert's boot.

The two shared a subtle smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even is this story anymore.
> 
> Also, Chifir = A very strong Russian tea. It has psychoactive effects and can be addictive. Its basically drugs.


	6. The One That Got Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert has peculiar requests of Nicholai.
> 
> [CW: psychological abuse, coercive sex, anal fingering, spanking, unhealthy role-play]

Sergei's coat had the lingering smell of its owner.

Nicholai knew that was impossible. It had been years since the man had died. Years that the coat had been stuffed in his closet amongst his own clothes. Fabric couldn't retain scent for that long... could it?

He buried his nose in the high collar of the jacket, taking a deep, searching inhalation. 

The smell was fleeting, ghosting past the tip of his nose in a whisper that was just _barely_ faint enough that it mocked him for believing it was real. 

He pulled the fabric from his face, kneading it between his palms a few minutes more before he began to slip it over his arms -- one, then the other. His naked flesh tingled as the weight of the heavy material peeled over him, dropping over his shoulders like a sheet of bricks ready to pull him to the bottom of a deep, dark canal. As the fabric swung loosely over his frame, oversized even despite his height and weight, the scent wafted from the curtain of grey again in a delusional jeer. 

Ignoring it this time with a tepid defiance, Nicholai strode over to the massive bed centred in cold, hollow bedroom that wasn't his own. He didn't bother buttoning the coat, letting it trudge and swing at his sides as he walked across the tiled floor. He climbed onto the mattress sloppily, flopping down onto his back with a nonchalant malaise and staring up at the high, pressed-tin ceiling with an idle, unblinking gaze. The coat had fallen open at his sides, leaving him exposed to cool, musty air that left a trail of goosebumps along his pale abdomen and thighs.

He rubbed his lips together, listening to the tiny creaks and clicks in the room as his fingers danced idly up and down his belly.

The ticking of a clock.

The _whir_ of the air conditioner battling the African heat. 

The distant groan of the utilitarian cement and metal halls expanding and contracting with the dramatic temperature fluctuations in the facility. 

And suddenly, the electronic beep of a keycard being recognised, on the keypad just on the other side of the heavy, steel door. The bolt -- one Nicholai had learned with some mixture of annoyance and amusement only opened from the outside a few hours after he'd been sent in -- slid open rapidly, but the door handle creaked to a rotation slowly afterwards. So slowly, Nicholai thought the bolt might re-activate and lock the door again. 

Albert slid his body gracefully through the slightest crack he'd made in the door once wide enough, a smirk pulling at his lips when his shielded eyes met the jade ones that turned to gaze at him pensively.

"I thought you might be sleeping."

"Would you have cared?" Nicholai cocked a brow, pursing his lips, "Would you have let me sleep like a little prince?"

Albert sighed a laugh, reaching for his glasses and plucking them gently from his face before casting them to the small table beside the doorway. Behind him, the door mechanically bolted shut again. 

"Never."

Nicholai propped himself up on his forearms, assessing the other man with ever-keen eyes. Albert was brushing a gloved hand through his tidy, blonde hair as he walked closer, boots clicking softly on the floor. He bypassed the bed, and Nicholai's eyes followed his black-clad form. On the opposite wall of the sparsely furnished room was a large, heavy wardrobe. Entirely out of place in the drab, grey cement and steel construction of the rest of the room, the intricately-carved wardrobe looked as though it had been imported from Europe. 

Or, Nicholai thought to himself, perhaps pulled from an estate that no longer existed.

He hadn't bothered to prod through wardrobe in the three days he'd been locked up in the bedroom -- or any of the other few pieces of closed-door furniture Albert's room had within it. He knew better.

It was the first time Albert had left him alone for that long, and the first time he'd left him locked away. He wouldn't ask why he'd been left the way he had, or where Albert had gone. He knew better to do that, too. Food had been brought to him two times per day by anonymous Tricell staff, as well as small stacks of paperwork with self-explanatory mandates to keep him busy and useful during long hours of isolation. 

That morning, a package came with the simple breakfast. 

Sergei's coat. One he'd kept stashed away in his own room, hidden behind layers and layers of his own clothes. How it had been found or by whom was yet another question he knew better than to ask. But, of course, it was one he was fairly certain he knew the answer to.

Albert. The omnipotent, all-knowing, self-styled God he was. There likely wasn't a possession Nicholai owned the man didn't have detailed inventory on.

Nicholai watched the muscles ripple beneath Albert's thin, grey shirt, the Brit peeling off the long, leather coat he'd been wearing. Plumes of the hide wafted into the air delicately, tickling Nicholai's delighted, willing nose. The coat disappeared into the wardrobe after it had been affixed to a wooden hanger, the doors closing softly afterwards. 

"Enjoyed yourself?" The words cut the silence that had idly settled in the massive room.

"Mmph." Nicholai shrugged the best he could in his current position, flopping back down onto the bed just as Albert was turning to face him, "Don't know what the purpose was."

 _I wasn't supposed to_.

"You weren't supposed to."

 _To make me feel like a caged animal_.

Boots clicked on tile. Closer. Closer. Nicholai could feel Albert looming, but he was just out of his peripheral vision.

"Nice coat." He was smirking, Nicholai could tell from the tiny hitch at the tail-end of his words, "Why didn't you ever tell me you had it?"

"I forgot." It was an honest answer. 

The bed creaked slightly as the other man sat a knee upon it. Nicholai kept his eyes cast firmly upon an oddly formed spot on the ceiling's pressed tin as he felt Albert straddle his thighs effortlessly, the warm leather of his pants pricked against his cool flesh deliciously. 

"You look cute in it." Albert jeered, a hint of cruelty dripping off the tip of his tongue, "And you wear it so well..."

A gloved finger trailed along Nicholai's naked navel, dragging down along the taut flesh until it came to a neat, trimmed bed of straight, silver pubic hair before tracing its way back up the reddened path it had made. The Russian shivered at the contact involuntarily, regaining a sense of control by cocking his head up to look at the other man, who was smirking at him chidingly.

"Well they didn't bring me any clean clothes, now did they? I don't like being dirty."

Albert leaned down slowly, strong, heavy body draping over Nicholai's until the older man's nose began to nestle against the hollow of his cheek. The hand that had been drawing lines across his belly reached up to stroke through his hair. 

Nicholai's eyes fluttered shut.

His hair. The fingers danced through the clean, thick locks, tugging them between each knuckle gently.

It was much longer now, at Albert's request, and after months of growing, the wispy, silver strands fell in front of his eyes incessantly when he tried to do his work in the laboratory. Nicholai had known why. It was so he could look much more like...

" _Sergei_." Albert's voice was a husky grumble rumbling against his cheekbone, "I thought you quite liked being dirty."

Nicholai felt his Adams apple bob harshly against his throat as he took a deep swallow.

Though this wasn't the first time he'd heard his dead lover and mentor's name reverberate into his ear in _this_ context, he had noticed Albert's fantasies and demands were recently taking a steep incline in severity. While initially, Nicholai had thought the desires had been some expression of unresolved tension he had towards Sergei, and that they'd eventually fizzle out -- as they became more frequent and extreme he knew he had been wrong in his calculation. 

Albert had taken him from Sergei as a trophy -- a prize of conquest. He knew that.

But he began to realise despite being a prize, he was merely one of consolation.

Albert had never wanted him.

So he had to be who he wanted. 

Taking a deep breath, Nicholai quieted the inner voices reeling at him for his subservience. He'd starved the voices in the short years he'd served Albert, but they persisted and survived regardless. Slowly, a facade brushed its way over him -- one that had become all-too-natural. The tiny mannerisms and tepid gestures of Sergei he'd accumulated in a lifetime of being practically raised by the man bubbled to the surface. They mingled with the part of him that knew what Albert liked -- what he wanted, expected, _needed_.

" _Da, my khozyain_." The words came so naturally, rolling through his lips with a grace his own lexicon never seemed to have, "But only dirtied by you, _comrade_."

His eyes opened to see Albert smirking down at him, grey eyes glazed with a familiar lust-haze mingling with a peculiar _other thing_ \-- something Nicholai could never quite identify. Their gazes lingered against each other's in silence for a few moments before Albert moved to climb off of him, slipping off the bed

"Are you going to punish me, comrade? You know how much I like it when you _hurt me_."

"What do I have to punish you for today, Sergei?" There was mock-annoyance dripping from Albert's caustic accent.

Nicholai flicked his head back, the silver locks that had become mangled by caressing touches fanned over the bed around him, contrasting harshly against the dark sheets. 

"I touched myself when you were away." He flashed Albert a toothy grin he'd trialed in the mirror -- one he had trained from the plastered images in his memory. He must have perfected it because he could just barely detect a bristle crawl across the Brit's cheeks.

In reality, both of them understood he'd never touch himself without explicit permission -- that saying so was simply all part of the fantasy. He knew better.

"Mm? And what did you think about when you touched yourself?"

Nicholai licked his lips, teeth clawing at the bottom petal slowly as he thought through a frame of mind that was distinctly not one that belonged to him. A disassociated state that had become more and more disassociated as their little games had become more delusional.

" _Master Spencer_."

Though there was a sudden, harsh fist that grabbed through his hair and jerked him upwards tightly, Nicholai did not gasp. A part of him had anticipated it, and whatever small part of it that was had been enough to sustain him to casually meet the sharp, abrupt pain with a nonchalant smirk, as he knew Sergei would. Albert had pulled him closer to the edge of the bed, and leaned down until the harsh angles of their noses were practically touching.

" **You aren't supposed to speak that name**."

Nicholai arched his back into the pull, "I am just trying to be honest, comrade." He began to read Albert's eyes. The fury burning at the back of them was genuine. Albert was far, far further disassociated than he was. Than he could ever be. 

"Get off the bed." He released his grip on the silver locks, and Nicholai quickly complied. A rough handle of his shoulder turned him, and he knew immediately to drop his hands to the edge of the mattress and bow deeply, until his chest fell flat onto it. This was a standard punishment position, one he'd been trained into quickly after Albert had _acquired_ him -- one he'd assumed no matter the indiscretion, or location, or privacy level when asked to do so. Most of Tricell had seen him bent over something, taking a swatting for an error. But they'd never dare speak of it. They knew better.

Nicholai felt the heavy coat fall up his back, exposing him fully. He'd spread his legs shoulder-with apart, and they shuddered slightly when Albert ran a gloved hand over his cool, pale flesh. It wasn't a gentle stroke. The older man's palm pushed in and kneaded his plump, firm rear aggressively, fingers gripping and tugging at a mound of it with domineering entitlement. 

"You aren't supposed to speak that name." Albert repeated, quieter. There was a quiver in the voice Nicholai declined to identify, though, like the smell of the coat he wore, he wondered if it was just in his head. 

_FWAP_

The first strike came without warning, cutting through the momentary silence that had fallen through the hollow room. Nicholai buried his head into the mattress, sucking a deep breath in but attempting to stifle it in the sheets. Sergei wouldn't have minded the sting -- not one bit. 

_FWAP_

"You aren't supposed to even **_think_** that name." Albert's words were muffled by the sheets, but dripped through the wall of fabric and hair that had mittened his ears to penetrate deep into Nicholai's mind. The second strike had landed just as he was filling his lungs, and it knocked it right out of him. 

Albert was using the back of his hand, Nicholai could feel it. The numb knock of the man's gloved knuckles beating a blow into him was a distinct kind of pain he knew well, one far more intense than the usual, open-palmed lashings he normally dealt. To add, Albert was using the full strength of his arm -- not holding back a single bit. The spots left by bone-on-flesh were blossoming bruises with every second that passed, blood rushing to inflame the site of trauma. 

_FWAP_

"G-gah...!" Nicholai cocked his head back, long hair draping over a face that was getting increasingly clammy with every strike. Without the sheets piled up around his ears, he could hear Albert's almost-ragged breaths behind him.

"What do I have to do..."

_FWAP_

"... to get you to **_understand_**?"

_FWAP_

" _A...A-Albert_..." An involuntary, pathetic plead whimpered past Nicholai's lips, foot stomping on the ground as the fire that had been lit on his back burned hotter and hotter.

_FWAP_

" ** _What do I have to do to make you loyal_** **_to me_**?!" 

The bellow had a precious moment to sink in. Nicholai felt his brow furrowing as his tiny gasps of pain continued to breath past his lips, pushing the hair draped over his face back and forth in a gentle ebb and flow of silver waves. The tiny hitch that had combed its way through Albert's words -- words he'd never spoken before -- was quickly registered, processed, and filed away. And then, the moment was gone.

_FWAP_

Nicholai felt his legs buckle, knees wavering beneath him like shaky trees in a windstorm. 

" _M-m-moy khozya-- ahhh!"_ A deep, jagged gasp cut off his plea as he felt two fingers jab into him roughly, one lagging behind the other as it pushed into the dry entrance without preparation or the slightest bit of moisture. Albert's other hand snaked its way into his sweat-dampened hair, jerking his head back roughly and pulling him until his back was arched and his shoulder blades were against the other man's chest. The heavy, grey limiter trench fell around Albert's arm sloppily.

Albert's lips ghosted over his ear. The man was sucking breaths through his teeth lustily, as though trying to retain control of something he knew was slipping from his grasp.

"Tell me." He whispered, voice trembling slightly as hot breath beat against Nicholai's ear, "Tell me you'll be loyal to me."

The fingers inside him pushed deeper, Albert's knuckles twisting against the tight ring of muscle with an aggressive disconcern for his comfort or pleasure. It wasn't meant to feel good, to be sexual. It was purely an act of ownership, of control. Manhandling a human like a puppet. 

Nicholai sighed shakily, swallowing hard as he tried to gain balance on trembling thighs, " _D-da_... I will be l-loyal t-o you..."

The fingers twisted again, jerking into him roughly. Nicholai whimpered pathetically.

"Again."

"I will be... loyal t-to you, _moy khozyain_." He could feel Albert smirking against the shell of his ear. The penetrating digits slackened slightly.

"Only to me?"

"Da." Nicholai mustered a nod, tongue darting out to lick lips that had suddenly become dry, "Only to you. Loyal only to you."

The tight fist in his hair loosened but didn't fully release, some strands of hair falling from between Albert's knuckles like tinsel. 

He hadn't noticed the lips that had been hovering over his ear had shifted a few inches forwards towards his cheekbone until he felt them graze across his flesh. Nicholai's hand involuntarily rose to meet the side of the other man's head, tepid fingers brushing along the side of Albert's face. He met no resistance.

A moment of silence passed between them. Nicholai took in the feeling of Albert's rapidly beating heart against his back.

" _Ya tebya lyubyu_ , _Alshka_."

 _Alshka_. The name Albert had told him to use during the fantasy. A name he assumed Sergei might have used for him at one time or another.

Silence but for the breathing against his cheek. He was sure he felt the heart stop beating for a moment. 

And then the grip in his hair was gone. 

And the fingers inside him were rapidly, unceremoniously withdrawn. The coat fell around his ankles, heavily pulling at his shoulders again, as it had when he had first adorned it.

Without a word, Albert strode towards the door, unlocking it rapidly with the keycard he hastily retrieved from his front pocket.

And he was gone.

The door locked behind him with an electronic _beep_ and a loud, mechanical _bolt_.

Nicholai stood where he had been left, staring at the door with a look of pensive loss. His body's sweltering numbness was drawing up a drumbeat across his flesh, but somehow it was waging a war for supremacy with the headache of bitterness and confusion that was taking seed in his temples.

He would never dare ask Albert what had happened between him and Sergei.

He knew better.

* * *

Notes for this chapter:

 _Ya tebya lyubyu/Я тебя люблю =_ I love you.

I actually enjoyed how this chapter turned out. 

Next chappie will likely be insight into Albert and Sergei's relationship >_<

Hope you are enjoying this mess of a story so far!


	7. We All Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert wanted Sergei. 
> 
> Represented as a flashback.
> 
> [CW: alcohol abuse, object penetration, hate/love]

He knew his infatuation wasn't normal.

He knew it was a weakness.

And it was the fact _he knew_ he shouldn't have been doing what he was that made it even more disgusting and pathetic.

Albert traced a tentative finger down the sharp contour of Sergei's masculine jaw, pushing the stray piece of long, silver hair that had fallen over it beside his ear gently. The older man was sleeping, eyes closed gently and lips parted ever-so-slightly. Across the man's vulnerable face, a rare expression of relaxation -- the stress-built lines almost invisible as gentle breaths slipped in and out of his nose. 

He tried to ignore the acrid stench of liquor that hazily danced up from Sergei's flesh to tickle at his nostrils, one he could notice was decidedly stronger than it normally was. The glint of dim light on glass had caught his eye the moment he'd entered the elaborate bedroom, an empty vodka bottle jeering at him from the corner of the Colonel's massive desk. It continued to taunt, nonexistent eyes judgementally bearing holes into him as he'd quietly stepped deeper and deeper into the room even after noticing Sergei had been asleep. 

He hated that fucking bottle.

Gods shouldn't be submitting to earthly vices.

Albert's eyes cautiously trailed from Sergei's jaw to his neck -- strong, thick tendons extending down to a heavy collarbone that just barely punctured the topmost armoured wall of incredible chest muscle. Sergei was undressed but for a pair of black briefs, seeing him out of his uniform was a rare sight, the man adorned in something elaborate even when he was doing whatever laborious task he considered 'resting.'

He delightfully took in the cavernous valleys of scarred, statue-esque musculature on Sergei's abdomen, occasionally flicking towards the huge, thick thighs weighing heavily over the sheets of the mattress which were still tucked neatly into the bed as though never used. He tried to avoid overtly-focusing on the seductive hipbones, well-defined obliques lighting a metaphorical _yellow brick road_ into the band of the briefs, but found himself unable to resist peeking at the heavy protrusion jutting its form from beneath the fabric, visible even in the dimness of the moonlight-lit room.

"You should be mine." The mumble was involuntary, harshly spitting past his lips in a breathy whisper moments before Albert's hand twitched with the sudden feeling of warmth enrobing it.

" _Alshka_."

Albert quickly turned away from the sinful sights he'd been drawn to, eyes combing over Sergei's scarred face as the man hazily roused. He shook Sergei's light, gentle grasp away from him, crossing his arms tightly against his chest in derision. He cleared his throat loudly, simulating composure.

"Drunk again, Sergei?"

A weak smile pulled at the Russian's flushed cheeks, good eye glinting shakily with a semi-conscious childishness. 

"Not drunk." He slurred, head rolling back into the mattress, "Not... drunk."

"You are." Albert insisted in a pointed jeer, "And it's _pathetic_."

Sergei took a deep breath, ribs delicately outlining themselves against the taut skin as he inhaled slowly. "I am pathetic, _Alshka_."

"Don't call me that!" Albert spat, brow furrowing and nostrils flaring in disgust. He huffed, suddenly striding across the room as an impatient itch began to claw at his spine, walking towards the tall, narrow window on the far wall across from other side of the bed. He looked out at the black nothingness, as if able to see something more than his own faint, reflection in the old glass. 

_Alshka_. 

Memories were a pesky thing, and at that moment, Albert did not feel like recalling the fist time Sergei had used that name for him. The oddly intimate dinners that led to oddly intimate walks that led to oddly intimate touches and caresses of flesh on flesh. Albert never wanted any of it, or so he told himself. And Sergei didn't either, or so Albert was convinced. Surely, Albert had ruminated more than once, he was just trying to steal information or secure loyalty. 

Minutes of silence passed. Albert dug his heels into the tiled floor, grinding one slightly in an awkward, anxious tic. Sick of the darkened mirror that was the window, he turned and found himself trotting quietly towards the desk. He accosted the vodka bottle with a condescending sneer, as though it were an old enemy. The thick, intricately twisted glass of the long neck recalled Russian architecture -- the bottle clearly being an imported label of some fine brand he'd not know from a cheap one having never touched liquor.

"Is this how much you enjoy serving _your Master_?" His sarcastic chide cut the cool air as his finger reached out to play along the glass, "So much that you've got to get drunk every night like a bloody vagrant?"

Behind him, Sergei began whimpering softly, hazy sighs breathing in wisps past his swollen lips.

"I.. love... _Master_."

Albert scoffed, shaking his head. His eyes still on the bottle, fingers involuntarily wrapping themselves around its wide body. When he turned, the bottle turned with him -- dropping to his side in the light grip of one of his gloved hands. He was almost surprised by how heavy the component was, even empty.

"Master..." Albert mocked, "Master is leading you to ruin." He lifted the bottle to assess it, stepping towards the bed slowly, "All of us to ruin."

Outside, a gust of wind hit the thin, antique estate window.

" _Nyet_." Albert could see Sergei's gaze was cast up at the ceiling, Adams apple bobbing as he swallowed deeply, " _Nyet_." He breathed again.

"You are wasting your loyalty on an inferior being." 

The older man fell silent. Albert could see his lip twitching, thoughts undulating impotently though his alcohol-soaked head.

"What d-do you wan-t from me?" The sentence slowly slurred from his lips, barely audible as more than a faint whisper. 

Albert smirked, a few short steps bringing him to the side of the bed. He loomed over Sergei for a moment, their gazes clashing harshly. Sergei's good eye was washed in a bloodshot haze, long tendrils of his silver hair contrasting across the dark bedsheet strikingly. 

"Join me." The words spilled out. A pathetic babble cast from lips that betrayed him. "Spencer is a fool."

The gaze they shared became heavy, burdened with silence and unspoken intentions. 

A soft, small smile pulled at Sergei's lips. He shook his head.

" _Nyet. Moya Rodin--"_

"As if!" Albert barked, "Spencer won't do shit to help your _precious motherland_ , he can barely help himself."

Sergei winced, cheek trembling but still holding the saddened smile he'd adorned. 

"Be. Mine." Albert hissed raggedly, tiny, soft footsteps bringing him to the side of the bed again. He could feel his heart drumming against his chest violently. In his hand, the bottle was squeaking beneath the tight, clammy pressure of his increasingly tense grip, "We could have the **_world_**."

Suddenly, his arm was enrobed in the tight, merciless grip of Sergei's nearest palm, an abrupt movement that prompted a tiny gasp from Albert, who tried to jerk his hand away quickly but found that even a heavily inebriated state didn't influence the Russian's tremendous strength.

" _Make_ me yours." Sergei spat, hissing, " _Earn_ me."

Albert continued trying tepid tugs, nostrils flared and brow furrowed over the rim of his dark glasses. 

"Or a-re you t-too _chicken shit_ like you are with Spencer?"

In indignation-fuelled fury, Albert found the strength to pull away, hand immediately bolting towards the older man's neck and grabbing it. The firm, sinewy flesh contracted under his fingers, tendons straining against the digits as they squeezed tighter and tighter. The smile on Sergei's face didn't falter, the upturned corners of his lips quivering as he involuntarily brushed the wrist of the hand assaulting him with his fingers.

" _Fuck_ you." Albert hissed, leaning down so closely his nose almost brushed against the tip of Sergei's.

The small, choked chuckle that managed to bubble forth from Sergei's lips infuriated Albert. The impotent swallows he could feel through the flesh. The unwavering smile. The tiny, pink tongue tip that danced along the corner of his bottom lip. 

_Denial._

A rejection of his demands, his requests, his offers, even when vulnerable. Abjectly clear was that the hand around Sergei's throat was unconcerning to him, as were the eyes leering at him through the dark glasses. It reinforced a thought Albert had long ago convinced himself of -- that Sergei wasn't actually loyal to Spencer, but just obsessively, spitefully sought to refuse him what he wanted, what he _needed_.

Albert felt his nails sink into the flesh beneath them, unconcerned for the tiny, red cuts manifesting beneath them. At that moment, he saw himself never letting go -- savouring the flush of pastel rose that was slowly blossoming on Sergei's lips and cheekbones as the smile faded slightly and his eyes fluttered shut.

 _He'd be mine, then._ A psychotic thought tickled the front of his mind. _Truly mine_.

Releasing the strong neck was difficult, the ragged action happening quickly and with the anticipation of pain not unlike ripping off a bandage. When the two men gasped simultaneously, Albert realised he hadn't been breathing either. 

A moment of heavy, musky silence passed between them. Albert watched the tiny, crescent moon shaped cuts on Sergei's neck dribble spots of crimson hesitantly. 

The wind beat at the window angrily -- a storm that had been brewing in the horizon gusting against the estate suddenly, marking the murky midnight hour.

Disassociatively, Albert felt his hand move towards Sergei's waistband, two fingers hooking on the thin material and pulling it down. The fabric was easily drawn away from the flesh without protest, slipping over the strong hips silkily before resisting for but a moment as it hiccuped over Sergei's cock. Albert pulled it over the flaccid mound, pulling it until it was around the other man's knees.

Sergei's eyes were still closed, hands beginning to knead at the blanket beneath him. His breaths were deep and long, belly trembling momentarily with every fresh exhale. 

Albert stared, eyes flicking over every square inch of exposed flesh from Sergei's naval to his knees, carving holes into every scar that hadn't originated from his hands, erasing them in his mind as though he could in the real world. His gaze would always slow in their pass of Sergei's thick, muscular thighs. That they parted for him slightly infuriated Albert even more. As always, it was a challenge, an entitled demand. They mocked him, chiding him for the weakness the older man routinely told him he had. The cowardices. The opportunities lost, wasted, and escaped from him because of uncertainty and anxiety. 

_And he's right._

_He's always right._

Slowly, Albert's eyes dropped to the liquor bottle still dangling from his left hand. 

The glass glimmered as he lifted it higher and higher, staring into the crystal nothingness as he found himself centring it between Sergei's legs slowly, anger delayed by caution. He could feel Sergei's gaze renewed, locked on him curiously as the foreign object manifesting at his thighs was far from that which he had anticipated, but Albert didn't reciprocate, focused on the gold-laced Cyrillic of the label as a malicious smile began to peel across his face.

Sergei yelped as the bottle's thick neck penetrated past his tight entrance, pushing the resistant ring of muscle open with a painfully dry friction. Albert watched a quiver wrack through his belly, ab muscles fluttering as shockwaves of stimulation beat through his belly, hips grinding against the mattress in response to the intrusion. 

Albert aggressively pushed the vodka bottle deeper -- the neck disappearing into Sergei's body like the bundles of sheets grasped tightly in his balled fists. The much wider body of the bottle was refused entry, a tiny whimper hissing from the back of the older man's throat as the thickness prodded up against his clenched opening firmly. His back arched up off the bed, ragged breaths huffing through his nose in involuntary anticipation. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Albert jeered quietly, sadistically considering the further assault with a tepid curiosity before releasing the bottle, leaving it lodged in Sergei's body arrogantly.

He neglected the tiny moans bordering on pleasure and pain when he left the room, slamming the door unceremoniously behind him as he exited with an attempt at nonchalance.

In reality, the hasty, anxious whisper of that damned pet-name hadn't been missed, just ignored.

 _Alshka_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I HAVE BEEN SO BUSY WITH SEMESTER START.
> 
> I also have had a small cold >_> so nothing but watching movies and eating soup recently after classes. 
> 
> Hope all of ym friends are doing okay and that you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> Tell me your thoughts! <3333333


	8. Beyond the Physical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert's demands of Nicholai become more depraved.
> 
> [CW: Psychological torture, alcoholism]

He didn't want to drink it. 

He hated the taste. 

He'd never been much of a drinker himself, avoiding liquor for fears of the addiction so many men around him had fallen into.

But when it was presented to him, an ornate, imported bottle of vodka atop the silver-rimmed platter delivered with his dinner, he knew what he was expected to do. 

Nicholai plucked the bottle from the platter, observing it in his hands closely. It was crafted of a heavy glass, with a twisted neck that reminded him of the onion-domed orthodox churches of Russia. He read the label idly for a few minutes, appreciating the Cyrillic even through the the most banal information. It had been a long time since he'd seen his mother script. He knew he'd never see it again. 

The sealed cap _clicked_ loudly as he unscrewed it, bringing the open bottle to his nose and taking a deep inhale. It didn't smell like anything -- maybe a bit medicinal. 

Beside the bottle had been a short, ribbed _stopka_ glass. Nicholai poured himself a shot, hesitantly lifting it to his lips with two fingers and pouring it all down his throat with all the gut-wrenched cringe of an amateur drinker. His lips twisted as they closed, gulping back the caustic liquor and stifling a gasp. 

It burned so, so harshly; fire igniting through every cell in his mouth and throat. It tasted like inhaling a jar of ethanol, leaving an abusive, stinging sensation reverberating through his sinuses.

He poured himself another glass, this time picking it up and letting it dangle fingers as he paced the room slowly, idly. He tried taking tepid sips while his attention was drawn elsewhere, but the taste still snuck past his attempt at disregard. 

Albert hadn't had let him leave the bedroom for over a week, but he hadn't returned since the last tryst he stormed out of. Tricell staff continued to bring him his meals, some light paperwork, and the occasional cup of tea. As of the last three days, they'd also left pills on his trays -- little, oval-shaped tablets in pink and red. He couldn't identify them, even for all of his newly-aquired pharmaceutical knowledge, and was frightened by the rattling sensation they'd left in his bones after taking them the first day. He'd stopped taking them, hiding the allotment from the last two days in the bathroom, wrapped in toilet paper. He knew Albert would be upset if he found out. 

Sighing, Nicholai took another sip of the vodka, trying to drink more this time. Already, it was beginning to warm him. A not-unpleasant sensation of artificial comfort tickled his mind and softened his steps. He was naked, as he had been since Albert had first left him, with only Sergei's old coat to blanket over himself when the air conditioning whispered too chilly. He'd taken it off earlier in the day and lain it out on the bed. On occasion, he'd glance over at it, somewhat disappointed when it was always empty. As though Sergei were to manifest into it by some dash of black magic if he left it alone long enough. 

"How did you drink this shit, _polkovnik_?" Nicholai muttered quietly, before throwing his head back and swallowing loudly the final sip of vodka in the stopka before wandering over to the bottle and giving himself a refill that he downed almost as quickly as the first. It was at that moment that he decided the formality of a glass was pointless. He knew he was expected to drink the whole bottle, no matter how sick it made him. 

Setting the glass down and snatching the bottle by the neck, he abruptly decided he wanted a bath, and slipped into the brightly-lit en-suit bathroom. Setting the vodka atop the edge of the large, porcelain tub, Nicholai switched the taps on, feeling the water with his palm before adjusting them a few times. He liked it hot -- hot enough to mar his skin in stripes of lingering itchy, red irritation. 

He picked up a small, glass component of oil that was near the soap, uncorking it and pouring a healthy glug of it into the filling tub until it bubbled and wafted with the delightful fragrance of lavender and lemons. 

Nicholai slipped into the water once it was high enough, vodka dangling from his hand over the side of the tub. He brought it to his lips to take the occasional swig, fully submitting to the alcohol-induced haze that had washed over his mind.

He slunk in deeply, sipping and contemplating the emptiness of his mind. Even attempts to muster a self-inquisitive thought were met with nothing -- a void. A vodka-filled void. His free hand played through the water gently, eyes providing unblinking focus to the little ripples in the bubbles the sway made. 

The few minutes of silence he enjoyed were a spiritual respite. The nothingness proved to be incredibly calming, for the first time in longer than he could remember. 

No thoughts. No sounds. Nothing but the calm, soothing scents steaming up from the warm water below, and the occasional burn of vodka dripping down his throat in a sporadic swig.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard the mechanical unlocking of the door. It was faded through the buffer of the bathroom, but unmistakable and unavoidable. For a moment, Nicholai was sure it was Tricell staff coming with his evening tea, but the emergence of a familiar face into the bathroom proved him wrong. 

" _Mmmhello_..." Nicholai mewed drunkenly, rolling his head on the tub's ledge as he blinked up at Albert, the man standing over him with an amused expression for a moment before he lowered himself to sit on the edge. 

"Good evening." Albert droned deeply, reaching out to caress Nicholai's face with gloved digits, "Enjoying your night?"

"Mmm."

He glanced down at the vodka bottle dangling loosely from Nicholai's fingers, cheeks balling into a grin, "Good boy."

"Mmph..."

"I've got a surprise for you." Albert spoke softly, his thumb running over Nicholai's chapped, swollen lip gently.

"Are you going to kill me?" The soft, slurred response elicited a chuckle from the older man, who shook his head slowly.

"There are worse things than death."

Nicholai giggled dumbly, "I know!"

Albert took the now-nearly empty bottle from Nicholai, setting it on the tiled floor gently before offering his hand. Nicholai took it, rising from the tub on shaky legs. 

Wisps of steam combed off of his body as he left the hot water, pale skin flushed with splotchy spots of pink and red. He stepped from the tub with care, feeling entirely drowsy between the liquor and warmth. He wanted nothing more than to rest his head and sleep, but he knew sleep would elude him so long as Albert were there. 

Albert pulled a white linen robe from the back of the bathroom door, wrapping Nicholai in it delicately. He helped him put his sleeves through the holes, and adjusted the collar for the tipsy Russian. He left it open, taking Nicholai by the arm and leading him back into the bedroom.

Nicholai yawned loudly, a little shiver wracking his chest as the cool air of the bedroom tickled his exposed skin. 

And then he saw it.

He saw _him_.

Sobriety immediately set in, reality smashing through his temple like a wrecking ball through an abandoned building. Nicholai felt a breath hiccup from his throat, eyes widening with every passing second.

"Wh..." Nicholai slapped a hand over his mouth, his attempt at a word quickly transmuting into a pathetic, jagged sob. He could feel Albert's smile burrowing maliciously into him as he stood there, breaths like knives raking their way up his throat.

" _S-Seryozha_..!"

Standing in front of the bed, the man who died so many years ago. Who had been _killed_ so many years ago. 

Sergei.

Nicholai knew it was impossible, and would have attributed it all to his own drunkenness had it not been for Albert's eyes moving between the two figures with a cruel excitement.

He could see him too. It couldn't have been an illusion.

The younger man took a few, cautious steps, white robe swinging at his side as he strode closer to the manifestation. He couldn't think, eyebrows furrowed deeply, eyes twitching but unblinking. The figure, clad in a dark jumpsuit, peered at him curiously, but it was in that moment that Nicholai began to notice differences. 

Two, pale-blue eyes stared back at him, not one. There were no scars marring his face, much more resembling how he had looked when he was a Lieutenant in the war and the two of them were young, ignorant soldiers. Nicholai lifted a shaky hand, fingers grazing the soft, warm flesh delicately, as though he'd be electrocuted if he touched it the wrong way. The figure didn't react, but continued to breathe softly, slowly, continuing his silent assessment. There was no recognition present in his -- its -- eyes, just a vacuous, oceanic abandon of nothingness. 

"Surely you know about the _ε-_ strain..." Albert mewed suddenly from behind him in a distance that was rapidly closing as he approached with soft, purposeful bootsteps, "Sergei was the perfect host for it. Umbrella made dozens of clones using his genetic material to mutate into tyrants."

Nicholai couldn't respond. He had known about the clones, just as he had known about the T-100 series, almost all of which were B.O.Ws built from the Colonel's DNA. But he had never given any mind to it all -- Sergei was so nonchalant about the whole thing. He'd never even considered the fate of the project after the man's death. 

Albert continued when Nicholai turned his attention to him, a look of confusion and anxiety meeting the blonde's devilish smirk. 

"I'd recovered some of the remaining strain from Umbrella before its collapse." Albert cocked his head to the side, eyes flicking towards the clone, "Some of _his_ remaining strain." 

Nicholai's head began to swim, ears ringing and temples throbbing painfully.

"We've been working on re-synthesizing it. With improvements, of course. But I needed some viral subjects to experiment with."

"H-how many... How many did yo-you..?" Nicholai stumbled through the sentence, body still under the influence of whatever alcohol was coursing through his veins.

"Ten. For now." Albert said with a dismissive wave of his hand, "All of them are empty vessels -- blank canvases, so to speak. Tricell will deal with them. But I allowed one to mature into the full realisation of Sergei's samples." He finished, flicking his chin towards the man before them.

Nicholai looked back at the clone of his former mentor and lover, swallowing deeply, his eyes fluttering in disbelief under paled lids.

"Does he... What... W-what does **_full realisation_** mean?" He felt breathless. 

"Everyone's genetic code has some deep, trace memories wound into it at the moment of extraction." Albert said smugly, filling in the answer to the question he knew Nicholai really wanted to ask, "Some part of him still exists beyond the mere physical. Or else this wouldn't be much fun, now would it?"

Nicholai felt his stomach lurch in disgust, his eyes moving back up to stare into the clone's. The unmistakable look of innocence he found there made him sick. He choked through another sob when the clone suddenly dropped to his knees, immediately responding to the _snap_ of Albert's fingers. 

" _S-Seryozha_..." Nicholai felt heaves wracking through his chest, " _Mne tak zhal._.." He reached out with shaky hands, taking the clone's cheeks in his palms softly, but the clone didn't break his focus from Albert, staring at him intently in active waiting for another command, " _Pozhaluysta, prosti menya_!"

Albert was chuckling in amusement at the display, folding his arms across his chest contently. He watched Nicholai lean into the clone, begging for forgiveness in his native tongue. Tears had begun to roll down his flushed cheeks, his fingers stroking through the clone's silver hair softly, pleading for it to look at him. 

The blonde was pleased. It was the most emotion the younger man had shown since he'd been came into his service, Albert beginning to take annoyance towards his routine disassociation and pessimistic stoicism. He knew Nicholai was broken -- indeed, he'd actively sought to break him -- but a broken toy quickly loses its entertainment value. 

"I'm so happy I could arrange this little _reunion_ of old _comrades_..." Albert's sneer turned Nicholai's head, the other man staring at him through glassy eyes, lips parted in gasps and pants, sobs and whines. 

"I'll leave you two to catch up, hmm?" Albert winked at Nicholai, who swallowed hard in silent response, cheeks twitching. "When I get back, we'll all have a little welcome party for our dear Sergei." The virologist began to stride towards the door, a little, excited bounce in his step. He stopped when he reached the door, head cocking to the side to cast a glance over his shoulder.

"Or should I say... a _welcome back_ party?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a while since I updated this story! But I officially had an idea for it (at least for the next 2 chapters) so I will run with that for now.
> 
> translations:
> 
> Mne tak zhal = I'm so sorry
> 
> Pozhaluysta, prosti menya! = Please forgive me!


End file.
